


His hands, my heart

by phrynne



Series: Wine [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Extramarital Affairs, Hands, Infidelity, Love, M/M, POV Harry Potter, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 20:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12896415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phrynne/pseuds/phrynne
Summary: Once I stare at his hands, I slide further down the spiral. He’s the only one who can release me.And I never know if he will.





	His hands, my heart

**Author's Note:**

> You can read this as a stand alone or together with the story linked to this one, which is called Wine. You don't need to read Wine to get this one, but still I connected them in a series because as I wrote this, I had Wine on the back of my mind. I'll probably get back to this series again.

His left hand is on the table, white against the tablecloth. Lean fingers, thin, his fingernails tracing invisible patterns on the fabric. My eyes travel with that motion.

I can look, but not touch.

Around me, conversations are exchanged, plates emptied of food, glasses of wine filled. I don’t know a single subject discussed and my stomach is empty of anything but wine. I’m on my fourth glass. If I keep going, the line between right and wrong will get blurry, opening up a space of possibility. I’m waiting for it to happen. My eyes are unmoving on the metal band of his ring, stark against his finger. I stare at it all through dinner. It feels like I’ve been staring at it all my life.

It’s been years. I thought I’d get used to the feeling. But the ring gets me all the time and he knows it. His hand travels on the table, in a seemingly random motion, but his sleeve rubs against mine for the hundredth time that night and there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s deliberate.

Draco never does anything without a purpose.

His purpose burns up and down my arm, reaches my hand, throbs on my fingers.

I don’t look at him, I keep my hand on the table, I pretend it’s nothing. This is the reaction he wants from me. My inaction speaks volumes to him.

It reveals everything I want and can’t have.

These formal dinners are an exercise in masochism. I never miss a single one of them. I know, beforehand, he’s going to be there. I also know that he’s going to sit right next to me, even if there are dozens of other empty chairs. When he’s already there, I’m the one to go to him. We don’t speak after the usual uttered Potter, Malfoy. We always start on this pretend distance.

I’ve got these dinners down to an art. I smile, I nod, I even talk in the right places, but all the time I’m only aware of him. When he speaks. When he stays silent. His legs crossed under the table. His cuffs brushing mine. I know he’s on his third glass. But once I stare at his hands, I slide further down the spiral. He’s the only one who can release me.

And I never know if he will.

Some dinners he folds his napkin neatly on the table. I came to hate that gesture. I look up then, he nods once, his grey eyes like glass, empty of all feeling. He turns his back on me. I know those are the nights he’s expected home. The nights he can’t escape. Those are also the nights he breaks my heart all over again.

Still I come back for more. Every time he breaks me, the pain tells me he’s real.

Tonight, he takes his time. He likes to leave me hanging. Maybe that’s what tells him I’m real. Desserts come and go. People go out to smoke, come back with laughs. Someone asks me something and I answer it. He watches me. No one looks at me like he does. Like he can take all of me.

I’m finishing another glass of wine. His hands are on his lap now, one on top of the other. The image blurs and sways in front of my eyes for a moment. Then it stops. He’s touching the ring with his fingers. He turns it on his finger. Once. My heart twists. Twice. Something tugs in my chest. Thrice. I sober up in seconds. Everything looks sharper, his pale hands, the metal band, cutting his finger. He removes the ring, slowly, decisively. It shines once on his palm. Then he makes it disappear inside his pocket. My temples throb. My mouth is dry. Dinner is over.

He gets up, turns his back on me and walks away. I wait. I start the count to a hundred. I tell myself I need to wait. But I’m only on fifty when I get up and follow him.

The cold air hits my face and I sober up some more, even if the street seems lopsided. He’s walking up ahead, his hands white at his sides. He takes a left turn, to the back of the building and I do too. This street is empty. He stops at the Apparition point. He doesn’t turn back to look at me, I don’t speak when I reach him. I lift my arm, he grabs it and I feel the instant pull. The world dissolves, swirls, we spin, his hand on me.

He releases me the second we stop on the dark familiar street. He walks ahead of me again. I watch his back, his shoulders. My heart aches with a hunger that I know will never be sated. It’s never good to fall this hard, down the abyss of someone.

But Draco is worth a thousand falls. And more.

I let him do the talk at the reception. The soft tones of his voice reach me and my body responds. I’m alive, breathing, for the first time in weeks. It’s our usual Muggle hotel. In here, they only see us for what we really are. Two men wanting to spend the night together. He has the key in his hand, and my eyes linger on it, on his fingers around the metal, as we go into the elevator. The doors close on us. It’s the first moment of privacy in months.

His mouth does not crash mine, I don’t pin him to a wall, my hands going down on him. We don’t move, don’t speak. His arm is next to mine, not touching. The seconds spill over us, silent, burning.

He goes down the corridor, reaches the door, turns the key. I’m right behind him. We’re inside, he closes the door. I don’t look around. We don’t turn on the lights. There’s a trace of light coming from the window. It’s enough. He’s against the door, silent. The show of confidence is over.

I walk over to him. His pale hair falls on his face and I lift my hand to pull it back behind his ear. Once we touch, we’re unable to stop. His lips are on my palm, kissing me, and the ache spreads everywhere on my body. His hands go up to my hair, I press him against the door, his legs fall open to allow my thigh between them, and he’s the first to moan.

‘Harry.’

Our kiss is a thing of desperation. Slow. Liquid. I get drunk again on the wine on his tongue, and he grinds against me, his nails scraping my jacket. We never use magic. Our urgency translates better when he undresses me with trembling hands, when my fingers struggle to unbutton his shirts, when he palms me through my trousers. He does it now.

Then his hands are on each side of my face and he kisses me again, I’m half naked, and I feel tears gather behind my eyes. I don’t let them out, instead I press my body against his, my hands on his waist, I trace his hipbones, I push his pants down. He’s cold, my hands cup his arse. We don’t rush, we’re not even hard yet. I want him with something more than my cock, this was never about the sex, the sex is something that happens because I want to be close to him, and this is the only way I get to have him.

We kiss as we walk to the bedroom, clothes scattered on the floor. Draco is so beautiful. He’s under me on the bed, and there’s nothing like the warmth in his eyes. So helpless. So lost. He is in love with me. He’d never let anyone see him like this if he wasn’t.

He rocks against me, slow, and I get him hard with my mouth, my hands, my fingers. He gets me hard with his body, his moans. I whimper when he turns us over, and I’m face down on the mattress, bucking back against him, his hands on my wrists. I love his hands. My whole body is screaming for him to fuck me, and he’s going to, he’s going to. I cry out when he does. His fingers are inside of me, twisting, curling, and I love them, I love him. I groan with his every movement inside me, and then I don’t stop. I’m crying out his name, Malfoy, Malfoy. Deliberate. I want him to remember it’s me. I’m the only one who calls him by this name in bed. _Malfoy._ He moans against my throat and then his cock replaces his fingers.

We don’t do rough. Or fast. Draco always takes his time with me. He’s slow, and tender and his words wrap around me, filling me as his cock does.

_I miss you. I can’t take this. I love you._

There’s a ring somewhere inside his jacket on the floor. Inside my mind, I watch it shatter in pieces, as he goes deep inside me.

I’m whole, I’m whole.

I’m his.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing the second chapter of "In the dark, the light". But in between that, my mind often wanders. Today I saw a picture of elegant, beautiful hands. It reminded me of Draco and this came up. This is the picture I saw, if you want to check it out: www.pinterest.pt/pin/124412008439671934/
> 
> Tell me if you liked this story :)


End file.
